Peaches - 17/06/22 Rewrite Poem by Banksoya Sauce

The freshness of my skin,
The ripeness of my age,
The taste of tar on my lips.

While no one craves to touch my reddening skin,
No one aspires to take advantage of my ripeness,
Now, no one will appreciate my age of flourishment.

Oh, to disappear within the crowd:
It is just a lonely but inevitable thought,
Hoping for the death of expectations within me.

There will come a time when they won't look,
Not with hope in their eyes for the future:
Instead a bitter resentment for the past.

At that age, I'll lose my value;
My skin will be ripe enough,
Not enough to simply make a man blush.

Oh, will I be miserable?
Lord, will I feel regret?
Or will my beauty dying within the arms of time
be a masterpiece within itself?